The call came just as he stepped out of the shower.
One towel hung low around his waist. The other he used to rub his hair dry, some strands still dripping down his forehead.
He answered with his free hand.
"Ryden Kamakura," she said.
"Miss Shaw," he replied.
He liked the way she said his name. Like she wanted it to sound tough and commanding—but it came out just slightly off. Almost nervous.
He wasn't finished prepping.
This wasn't standard.
No client called this soon.
He got caught unscripted.
But he went with it.
She was VIP.
He listened. Straightened. Agreed.
Call ended.
After putting the phone down on his desk, he stepped in front of his mirror. He rubbed his hair again, thinking. Her cold but soft voice still echoed faintly in his ears.
He dropped the towel, pulled on clean boxers, then grabbed a slate-gray shirt from the rack. Rolled the sleeves once. Sat down.
Scripts blinked on his screen. Neural patterns. Loop cues. Session triggers.
Next to them, a tab showing projected income for the month. His numbers were still short.
Too short.
He tried focusing on his prototype—fine-tuning the casing of the neural harness he was modifying. But his hand slipped once.
The calibration pin fell to the floor.
A new notification pinged.
[Dream Inc. Internal: Client Request Update – Sera Shaw]
Meeting confirmed: Compatibility Check. Tomorrow. 21:00.
He hit record.
"Ryden Kamakura. Acknowledging update. I'll make the time."
He sent the voice note. Sighed, shoulders heaving.
Then leaned back in his chair. Looked at the wall.
After a beat, he dropped the tool in his hand.
Juno, SEARCH: Sera Shaw.
Photos loaded first. High-profile events. Corporate press. A biotech award from two years ago. A silent video of her walking a trade floor in Tokyo, alone, head held like she was miles above the room.
Poised. Sharp-jawed. Polished to perfection.
Expression: unreadable.
He grabbed the stress ball from his desk and rolled it in one palm.
Most clients came in wanting affection. Rescue. Warmth.
This one wanted possession. Control. Hurt.
He kept scrolling.
Public image: intact.
Background: wealthy. Educated. Isolated.
He paused on one photo—her standing beside a sculpture, looking directly into the camera. Like she knew someone would be watching later.
He kept turning the stress ball in his hand.
An interesting new puzzle.
What leads someone to script their own suffering?
Performance? Kink?
Play? Insecurity?
Something else?
He didn't know what yet.
But he was meeting her in less than twenty-four hours.
And he was starting to get curious.